If I was
an American, born immune to viruses brought by the invaders
Prometheus, the demigod who never brought fire
Cleopatra who held the feathered serpent on her breasts
instead of a cobra

If I was
a history when Cleopatra and Antony were never in love
the poem in the eternal procreation
the knife in the hands of Brutus
Had I been Joan D’ Arc whose schizophrenic innocence
carved at least 14 churches in her meat
had I survived seven hundred years of solitude
maybe I could pour out gold from Odin’s finger
and build a shrine on a plateau in the hungry savannas
for starving children in the Horn of Africa

I’d resign Arabs and Christians
I’d raise Irbil, gentile monastery in Iraq
transformed into a field of powder
I would sing…
a variety of languages
I’d tear the Tower of Babel apart
I’d make ten thousand things be possible
In my name
in His name
in .. someone’s name
I’d become pungent silence
for you
for me…
for our world whose tenderness is shot with the bullet
for the holy son whose blood is chiming incurable.

Painted corpses are unweaving
I have not yet submerged them all
Much like the history of the black scarf
Ready to move time and air

During this
Year of one thousand nine hundred and ninety nine
It is hard to silence the cry above mortuary reports
The woods and the grass still sprout from the once living
Because they are the most reliable

Those who came point-blank from the green memory
And tombs before oblivion
Negotiate with the heavens

We are watched by the living and dead
If the dead weren’t alive
We would all be left without tongue and tribe
Are they not your doubles too

Do perhaps the living originate from weakness
When in absence
They give themselves to each other

it is like a desert where time is not measured by clocks
It is similar to the opening through which the jailer peers into a cell
it is why the birds for me have no name
it is the cause of my timid disruptions
it is the cause of my demolished kingdoms
It is a creature not known to human heart
staying in my words unspoken.
SERBIA.

From cave pictures, with hand
sprayed self portraits.
To a church’s pulpit displaying
Psalm Twenty Three.
The writing’s on the wall

From mud huts to stately
homes.
The writing’s on the wall

From the nail driven torso
hanging from the eaves.
To bullet chipped, blood
soaked wall of the firing squad
The writing’s on The Wall

From the cleaved head. That
reminisces Salome’s deed.
To a child’s barrel-bombed and
desecrated body. Too
late to share its uncorrupted
mind.
The writing’s on The Wall

And from the push of the first
button to the
push of the final button.
There will be NO writing on
the wall

Is that the writing we want
for us?
The world is at war. Humanity
is in flames.
And I have tears. But, nowhere
to cry.

~* ~

Commentary by Leila Samarrai: This amazing, well-crafted poem doesn’t contain the usual rhetoric related to terrorism such as descriptions of bloody shouts, strong shocks, gas masks, or bombs. The voice of this fantastic poet, Terry Robinson, shows through seemingly unrelated metaphor on the effects of terrorism throughout time. I see this history through images ranging from the head of John the Baptist, the pierced body of ‘homo erectus’, to the poor infant in the ancient days of Sumerian Civilization in Mesopotamia. I see shattered heads; I escape Salome’s wrath; and I walk through the epochs, through history. These words and images are united in their marrow, and all this is accompanied by the mantra, “The writing’s on The Wall”, that will echo in my ears, maybe forever. This phrase emphasizes his point that mankind has a propensity for violence or terrorism and this nature is the ‘writing on the wall’, or something that cannot be changed. A good poet often transcends genre or topic, and here, images and words fly through the ages, transcending time until the dystopian end when the poet turns to his own humanity, as well as to the remains of the world, surrounded by ruins, in the manner of a post-apocalyptic hero when he writes: ‘/ The world is at war. Humanity is in flames. / And I have tears. But, nowhere to cry /’. The poet conveys a universal message that the world is changing, but the scenery remains the same. The room for interpretation is not immense, but it is ambiguous, seemingly without hope or even a small opening through which one can cry and breathe. A circle has neither a beginning nor an end: it is one single, continuous line, a never-ending cycle without progress, where the past is endlessly repeated.. ‘until he comes out at the beginning’ (Fishman). Or, should I quote Jim Morrison, ‘This is the end, My only friend’.

Thunder rolls from guns were observed,
Mutilated young bodies
Arranged in red locks across the crowded
room,

Shock, dismay and carnage,
Weeping tears mixed with speechless
teens,
Surrounded by extraordinary slaughter,
Bewildered young people, damaged for
life.

Why? That is the question.
Will we ever get answers to this mystery?
Is it a mystery or an event foretold?
What did it all accomplish?

Media hype to drive Europe into
submission.
Did it work?
That is another question.
Who will give us this response?

The grim reaper of death, mingled
amongst them,
Who gathered the bleak harvest of souls.
Newsflash on our radios and televisions,
The world looks on, helpless and
disturbed.

Each country wondering, ‘Will we be
next?’
All feel heart-rending emotion for France.
We express grief with them and for them,
May their loved ones rest in peace.

~* ~ Commentary by Leila Samarrai:

Like Virgil leads Dante through hell, Venn leads the reader through a bloodstained Paris, using strong and convincing poetic images. Through a picturesquely woven artistic structure, the poet has strung together harsh images that create the feeling of the current existence in France and the world. The title, ‘The Music Stopped’, reminds us how we felt when the attacks occurred, and also refers to the massacre during a music concert. The symbol of ‘The Grim Reaper’ is used, reminding us that souls are being gathered as we look on, ‘helpless and disturbed’. The image also reminds us that we do not know who will be next, where the next terrorist attack will occur and who will be killed. The poem ends in an unsettling note of ambiguity and sadness for the victims with the last line ending, ‘May their loved ones rest in peace’.